Friends of Sherwood
by Robin Scarlet
Summary: Everyone knows the story of the outlaws of Sherwood, but they did not fight the good fight alone. This is a previously untold tale of the outlaws, their allies and the battle for justice. Cowritten by outlaw author and the scarlet phoenix.
1. Prologue: Of the Forest

**Disclaimer:** of course we do not claim to have invented Robin Hood, although one of us might sometimes claim to _be_ him...

_**A/N2:** The prologue and chapter one have been edited to change the captured outlaw from "Will Stutely" to "Will Scarlet," in case anyone noticed. Also, if anyone is still interested in reading, we've finally gotten together and planned out the next three chapters and are in the process of writing them, so hopefully there will be no more huge gaps of more than a year between postings to look forward to._

**A/N:** This story has been a long time in the works, but we are very proud to see the first part posted here, especially since Robin Hood has a special place in the memories of our friendship. We hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoy writing it! And now, without further ado...

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**Friends of Sherwood**

_Prologue: Of the Forest_

A trilling birdcall sounded in the balmy air of Sherwood Forest, a vagrant breeze carrying it clearly from the lone sentry perched high in a tree-top to the rugged men gathered in a clearing some distance away.

_Someone comes_, it said.

All tensed, froze in what they were doing, the lines of each body taut with anticipation; a few fingers twitched toward weapons hanging ready-to-hand at their hips. But when it was followed by a second birdcall meaning, _Friend_, the tension drained away from each form and all relaxed.

All save one.

He sat at the edge of the clearing; in his green tunic, brown leggings and leather jerkin he faded easily into the verdure at his back. Even his physical features did not betray his presence; the varied browns of the hair that just brushed his shoulders matched exactly the tints of tree-bark, and the shifting hues in the depths of his green eyes emulated the transforming shades of the forest leaves. If eyes are windows to the soul, then it could be said that the forest was this man's soul, for that is what many saw who looked into his eyes.

At that moment, though, this man's soul – whatever it happened to be – was troubled. Oh, his outward appearance was one of calm: reclining indolently against a solid trunk with eyes closed, arms dangling off drawn-up knees. But the ease of his manner belied his restless alertness, as he meant it to. He was the leader of these men, and as such he could not show the anxiety that lurked in the dark corners of his mind and gnawed at his heart.

And yet, frankly put, he was worried.

The past two weeks had been trying, to say the least. With the sheriff's men closing in on them, the outlaws had been constantly looking over their shoulders. Finally, the sheriff had seemed to withdraw, but Robin had needed to be sure that was the truth before he allowed the camp to return to its normal routine. And so – just that morning, in fact – he had sent one of his men to gather information at the Blue Boar Inn.

But it hadn't been just any of his men; it had been Scarlet.

Will Scarlet: previously a nobleman, lithe swordsman, a flirtatious young man with nevertheless a kind, generous heart, Robin's own cousin. Will had followed him into Sherwood shortly after his outlawry and was one of few surviving reminders of that previous life, not to mention the fact that he was one of Robin's closest friends.

And he was late.

With each passing moment, the iron band of apprehension cinched tighter about his gut, and when that first birdcall came, unnamed fears became a reality in his mind and instinctively he knew what was wrong. Never mind the fact that the second birdcall meant _friend_, never mind the fact that Robin had the utmost confidence in Will, never mind the fact that Will could have simply taken his time out of caution… Robin's instinct told him that was not so, and he had not survived past his first year of outlawry by ignoring his instinct.

Therefore it was he who first picked out the hurried tread of one who did not know the forest well, beyond the subdued bustle of the men in camp. He was not at all surprised – yet neither was he relieved – when two of his men led Mathilde, a serving girl at the Blue Boar Inn, to where he sat.

Unfolding his long limbs, the outlaw leader rose smoothly to his feet, keen eyes taking in every detail of the appearance of the young woman now standing in front of him. They roamed from the hem of her soiled and torn skirt, brilliant red now muted by muddy brown – she had obviously not spared herself to bring him the news – and traveled up to notice her red, puffy eyes and the tracks down her tear-stained cheeks. The tidings she bore were not good, he read in her eyes, just as she saw in his that he already comprehended the news she brought.

Robin nodded slowly, thanking his men for escorting Mathilde to him and signaling that she need not say anything.

"Geoffrey, please bring food and drink for Mathilde. Thomas, would you send John to us?" Both men hurried off to do as their leader asked, and he gestured for the distraught young woman to sit in the place he had recently occupied.

In a few moments, Little John would join them, and Mathilde would relate her news, and Robin would need to be calm – not only so he didn't frighten his men but also so he did not do anything rash. He stood with his back to Mathilde and the clearing, closing his eyes in silent communion with the forest. He shut out the sounds of the camp: the distant crackling of a fire, the men's footsteps and the other mundane noises common to daily life. Ignoring everything else, he concentrated simply on the forest, the greenwood that was his refuge.

He did not hear Geoffrey come and go with bread and ale for Mathilde; his ears were filled with the comforting songs of the forest birds. He did not hear Little John approach and stand behind him, but the lieutenant took one look at his younger captain's posture and left him to his thoughts, for the moment at least. A capricious forest breeze ruffled Robin's hair even as it soothed his soul, and when he was finally filled with calm, he turned and face Mathilde.

"Pray tell us what has happened to Will."

Mathilde told of how there had been a score of the sheriff's soldiers lingering about the tavern when Will arrived, disguised as a monk. By evil chance, a cat had rubbed against his leg, pushing up the hem of his robe and giving the soldiers a glimpse of Lincoln green. Will had then been recognized as one of Robin's men and was arrested, though not before he had injured eight of the soldiers.

Rage and pride surged in Robin then; rage that they should dare to lay hands on his cousin and pride that Will had given a good accounting of himself before they were finally able to subdue the outlaw. But of these two, rage burned the fiercer. He wanted to ride faster than thought to the city of Nottingham, he wanted to storm the castle there and smash it into a heap of rubble, he wanted to pound the sheriff's face in with his own bare hands, to wipe the conceited smirk off that self-satisfied oath-breaker.

But most of all, he wanted Will home again, safe in Sherwood.

And he raged at himself for sending Will into danger with a rage so intense that it shattered the inward calm he had so carefully built up.

Little John saw the fists clenched so tightly at his sides that the knuckles were white, saw the thinned lips and set jaw, saw the faraway look flaring in the deep green eyes, saw the rigid posture of the younger man's body. With a murmured word of thanks he sent Mathilde back to the Blue Boar Inn, then returned to his leader's side.

_I would not want to be on the receiving end of such anger if he ever gave in and unleashed it. So far he has not, but… Pray, lad, do not do anything rash, _Little John silently begged.

"Rob?" he asked tentatively.

With great effort, Robin managed to stamp out most of the rage that still welled within him, tamping it down until it was just a spark; enough to fuel him but not enough to overcome his common sense. Exhaling slowly, he turned to face John, and, seeing the concern there, gave his second-in-command a reassuring smile.

"I'm alright, John," he said affectionately, placing a hand on he other man's shoulder. "Let's save Will."

Little John grinned wolfishly in response to the glint in Robin's eye, and the two men stepped out of the shade to the sound of Robin's hunting horn, summoning all others to the glade before them.

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**A/N:** Well, what do you think? We can't promise that your reviews will make us update any sooner, as there are difficulties enough in coordinating things already, but we can promise that they will be greatly appreciated and much looked-forward to!


	2. Of the Streets

**A/N:** See prologue for disclaimers...

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**Friends of Sherwood**

_Chapter 1: Of the Streets_

Dawn's first rays washed over the harsh stone walls of Nottingham, tingeing them, for the slightest moment, a warmer golden-brown. It slipped over the crenels and crests, through poorly thatched roofs and danced through the streets. Light crept down the alleyways and slid over the sleeping form of a slender girl, her freckled skin dappled bronze by the rays that caught in her red-gold curls. She sighed and shifted on the pile of straw that served as her bed, pulling her worn dark green cloak higher. Just beyond the girl, a dark-haired boy stood watching her, the slightest hint of a smile on his face.

"You look softer when you sleep," he commented quietly. The girl bolted upright, a dagger appearing in each hand. She rolled her eyes upon seeing the boy, and sheathed the daggers slowly.

"You could have just shaken me," she grumbled, letting her cloak fall back onto the pile.

"And get another scar to match the one you gave me the last time I did that?" the boy grinned. The girl shook her head and kept her face stern.

"I take it you have news for me, then?" She began to braid her hair as the boy nodded.

"Henry was at the gates when the Sheriff's men brought 'im in. All in Lincoln green, he was, and bruised somethin' fearful," the boy reported.

"A name, Jack. I must needs a name," the girl demanded.

"'Tis Will Scarlet, Catheryn. They've taken Will Scarlet, and they're to hang him at sundown."

The girl—Catheryn—sank into contemplation for a moment, green eyes sparkling with anger. "Jack, I want the littles' out, pickpocketing, pursecutting, whatever distractions they may. The sheriff won't arrest them. Get me a half score of ones to beg, too. And another half score to come with you and me. If Robin's to get Will out, we'd best cause some disturbance to help cover."

Jack bowed and ran off, and Catheryn sighed. As the leader of Nottingham's largest street gang, the Lincolns, it fell on her to assist those within the walls of Nottingham as the famed Robin Hood did without them. She also owed a personal allegiance to Robin, one she had inherited through her father. Not four years past, Robert Smythe—blacksmith, father, and informant for Robin Hood—had been hung by the Sheriff. It had come to Catheryn to continue his work, and she did so through a wide network throughout the city. After fighting her way to the leader's role in the Lincolns—named for Robin's color—Catheryn had elevated them from street rats and thieves to informants and fighters. She had maids in the Sheriff's house, stablehands in his yards, orphans and mendicants carefully placed to overhear every scrap of information possible from the Sheriff's supporters, and, of course, her core group of street fighters, who defended the younger ones. She took it upon herself to make city raids easier on the Merry Men, providing distractions and diversions—rarely violent, but often involving rotten fruit, pickpocketing, or staged fights in the middle of a crowd. Jack was her second-in-command, and they practiced fighting skills daily together. He was, in fact, more like a brother than a lieutenant, but served in both positions admirably.

Lately, she'd been considering more and more seriously the possibility of joining Robin's men in the forest. She could fight, and defend, and slip in and out of places men couldn't. Her father was certainly known to him, and Jack could take over the Lincolns.

Catheryn sighed. At this point, her plans were relatively unformed. She shook her head, clearing it of the muddying thoughts of the future and focused on the moment. Slipping on the cloak over her black leggings and white tunic—the colors of the Lincolns, as to wear true Lincoln green in the city was to ask for death—she rose and shook out her legs, checking the placement of her daggers as she moved to prepare all that she would need for the afternoon's diversion.

This would be fun.

The sun beat down, far hotter now than before, glinting off the swords of the score of soldiers guarding the gallows in the center of the town square. Fully half the town encircled them: some yelling insults, some fighting to get to vendors, some simply excited at the prospect of a hanging. Merchants hawked their wares about the square, bargaining furiously with all a manner of maids, menservants, housewives and shouting threats after the children who slipped in and out of their stalls, carrying away as many goods as they could run with. The few guards spared to watch for such incidents struggled vainly to press through the crowds and catch the thieves. Pickpockets slipped in and out, leaving loud shouts and curses in their wake. The Sheriff, seated astride a chestnut destrier at the base of the gallows, scowled and yelled orders to the guards about the gallows, and a full third of them left their posts to chases the children now darting in and out of the crowd, laughing all the while.

Catheryn watched all this from her perch on the roof of a nearby house, noting with approval the small but growing pile of fruit at the base of the house on which she sat. Jack sat on the next house over, occasionally calling out suggestions to the younger members of the Lincolns. As she scanned the square, she caught sight of a pattern of movement throughout the crowd—men making their way slowly to the center of the square. She whistled loudly, and the Lincolns assembled around her as she dropped into a fighter's crouch next to the fruit pile. A slow, mischievous grin spread across her face as she looked at it, then at them.

"You know what to do," she said, hefting a half-rotted apple. Their grins matched hers as they armed up and dashed back into the crowd. As food began to fly, the Lincolns yelling and laughing, Jack and Catheryn waded into the fray. Finding a relatively open spot, he dove at her, dagger out, and they began to fight, moving all around the square, knocking over guards, Lincolns, and townspeople indiscriminately. The Sheriff roared orders, and the guards posted at the gallows dispersed. Dancing about, daggers flashing wildly, Catheryn laughed aloud at the perfection of it.

Everything was going exactly as planned.

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**A/N:** We love to hear from our readers...*hinthint*


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